Lux Aeterna Luceat Es
by Bizzy
Summary: [Translation of the title given at end] She appeared when he needed her, with the resolve and patience to assist and solve whatever the task at hand was. Summary doesn't do the full story justice. Rated because I'm paranoid. Bonus chapter up!
1. Chapter 1

_Lux Aeterna Luceat Eis _

Author's Notes: I have been working on this story for months now. I don't want to translate the title now--please bear with me and wait until the final chapter. I'll give you the translation then.

I don't own FMA. Really.

* * *

Day in and day out, his loyal subordinates arrived, prepared to complete the given tasks for the day. As loyal and dependable as a perfectly wound timepiece, they invariably each appeared at the same time each day without fail—so much so that their habits could be used to keep the time. True to their word, they followed him to the top without a hint of protest, determined to support him no matter his endeavors.

Ironically, after so many years of coming to work alone, he never once arrived without her, his second-in-command, his back-up plan, the closest subordinate in the entire Amestris military, and his most trusted aide. He came to realize that he never went anywhere without his sharp-shooting confidante, and that he never had to ask her to accompany him. Without a second thought, as instinctively as breathing, she appeared when he needed her, with the resolve and patience to assist and solve whatever the task at hand was.

Corruption was cleared and every higher up that played a role in the tarnishing of the military was immediately removed. Each corner of each military headquarters in the country was scoured for information to remove all of the crooked officers. With a newly trustworthy staff and military higher-ups who obviously cared for the people, trust in the fragmented Amestris government was slowly starting to return.

Führer Mustang was proud of his work, and had every reason to be. It was his diligence that had gotten him to this point, along with the help of his trusted subordinates. It hadn't surprised anyone, then, when Mustang immediately promoted the then-Colonel Hawkeye to General, again making her his second-in-command—only a few hours after his promotion. In the following days, both Heymans Breda and Jean Havoc became Major Generals and took their new offices. Two days later, Vato Falman was promoted to Brigadier General. And lest he think himself forgotten, three hours later Kain Fuery was promoted to Colonel.  
What did surprise both his immediate subordinates and the many people in the country monitoring their Führer's behavior like hawks was what he did next. It had started subtly; Mustang and Hawkeye would spend more time together. More often than not, they could be found talking over their lunch or walking home together in the late-night chill—just a bit closer than was appropriate. Five months into his term, it was revealed that a marriage proposal had been made. Though Havoc, Breda, Falman and Fuery had suspected that things were growing more intimate, they had not expected a marriage proposal at 2134 hours on a Tuesday evening during a bout of overtime paperwork.


	2. Chapter 2

It was common knowledge that day that General Hawkeye was not feeling particularly well; her cheeks were flushed from fever and her eyes were slightly glossed over. Diligent in a way that only she could be, she arrived on time and insisted that she stay her full shift despite protests from the Führer himself and their other subordinates.

At 2045 hours, her head dropped to the desk with a muted _thump_, and she was asleep. It was as simple as that: one minute she was doing everything in her power to stay productive, and the next she was out like a light.

"Ah…General Hawkeye?" Fuery's voice was quiet; though his statement was obviously meant to wake her, he didn't seem at though he was making a concerted effort.

"She's asleep, Fuery. She had a fever yesterday evening as well but refused to take today off." Mustang glanced at her, his brows furrowed as she continued to sleep. "Stubborn as an ox." With that, he pushed away from his desk and started to the closet, digging for his coat.

"Hey Chief, what are you doing?" Havoc chewed absently on the butt of his cigarette, leaning backwards in his chair as his eyes followed his superior officer's movements.

"Getting my coat."

"…Why?"

Mustang swallowed thickly, coat now in his hands as he dug through the pockets. "I can't take it anymore."

Breda nervously glanced around the room. "Take what, sir?"

By then, Mustang was behind Hawkeye's desk. He gingerly draped his black coat over her shoulders, and placed a hand on her forehead. Shaking his head and clicking his tongue in disapproval, he sighed. "She's impossible. Her fever is worse."

Exchanging nervous looks, his subordinates chose—wisely—to hold their tongues.

Now his hands were in his pants pockets, and Mustang was staring anxiously at the sleeping blonde as though desperate to do something. Havoc watched Mustang stare with mild confusion, until his curiosity got the better of him nearly ten minutes later.

"Chief, what are you _staring_ at her for?"

"What?" Snapped from his trance, Mustang looked at Havoc, puzzled.

"You've been staring at Hawkeye for almost ten minutes." After a pause, Havoc snickered quietly. "She's gonna kill you if you don't get back to work, Chief."

"That's all right. She won't kill me," Mustang responded with a quiet confidence, smirking just slightly. "I have something for her." He pulled his hands from his pockets, revealing a small black box.

"No way—"

"Is it a _nice_ ring, at least?"

"I want to see it!"

"This will not get you out of your work, you know."

Mustang started waving his hands to silence them. "Be quiet! You're going to wake her up!" He opened the box to reveal the small ring if only to appease their curiosity. "Now get back to work." Without another word, Mustang carefully placed the box on her desk and returned to his own work.

Almost half an hour later, she woke up. Dazed, she surveyed the room, seeing that everyone was working quietly. Her head was throbbing, and the fact that her coworkers were all on task almost unnerved her. It was then that she realized there was a small box on her desk. "…What's this?" She asked groggily, gently fingering the soft black velvet.

"I don't know," Fuery replied quietly, sounded as though he had scripted the response.

"Just open it." Havoc carefully peered up from his papers, tilting them to shield his gaze, which would allow him to survey her reaction without being noticed.

The small box _clicked_ quietly as she opened it, and her eyes widened like saucers the moment she recognized the small golden ring. "Who left this here?"

"I did, General."

Hawkeye looked to Mustang, still clearly surprised. "Really? Is that so?"

He nodded slowly, his nondescript grin growing. "Well, what do you say?" By then, he was on his feet, standing in front of her desk and admiring the ring as he turned it slowly between his fingertips.

She smiled. "I would be honored."

* * *

Quick Note: Short chapters, I know. I just want it to flow right, and the way the original is written is not really conducive to chapters, but it's so long it needed to be broken up. 


	3. Chapter 3

Though many had been at least somewhat surprised by the Führer's proposal to his immediate second-in-command, the fact that the couple wanted a small, private service shocked a minimal amount of persons. Only the closest friends of the two were invited to a service that was brief and found its end in a cemetery of all places. This had played a role in why the ceremony was reserved for the close friends of them—though neither Mustang nor Hawkeye were particularly sentimental, they each had a person whom they wanted to 'see'.

And once the relationship was made official and properly documented, that was the end of it. Surprisingly enough, it was if the two had been married the entire time—their actions in the office and in public remained shockingly similar to earlier behavior. General Hawkeye continued to carry her maiden name (for the sake of avoiding confusion, she adamantly explained, though many thought it was her own stubborn streak and hopes of keeping her family surname alive), and Führer Mustang did little to display closeness at work. No rumors of a Mustang Junior were reported, no marital tiffs were overheard, and there was certainly no display of public affection. As simply and quickly as that, it was done.

Throughout the engagements of the Führer and his wife, turmoil began brewing towards the Western boarders of the country. In a time where peace had been viciously fought for, few were willing to give it up without probable cause. The conflict that was starting to seep its way just slightly into Amestrian boarders were grating on the last nerve of patience that the people of the country had left. Things had started inconsequentially enough, with idle threats and no action beyond moving closer to the boarder of the country.

Shortly thereafter, however, shots had broken out in the town closest to the boarder. An innocent civilian who was reported to be approximately five years old was found dead, a single gunshot wound to the head. It wasn't just this, however. The threats were coming frequently, and were growing increasingly violent. Obviously, such happenings prompted immediately military action.

General Hawkeye and Führer Mustang, both with ample field experience, made the decision to approach the violent outsiders themselves. With quite a few subordinates at the ready should anything go wrong, the two charged headlong into a reconciliation campaign, ready to do everything in their power to prevent an all-out war. Unsurprisingly, things did not go well.

* * *

"Sir, I hardly think that these conditions are conducive to the situation. Somehow, I can't believe that _this_ is where they want to resolve a conflict," Hawkeye murmured with reasonable uncertainty. Her right hand was hovering centimeters above her holster, eyes narrowed in anxious defense as she kept a careful watch on the shadows of the small, abandoned warehouse.

"Can't say I don't agree with you there, General," he replied wearily, dark eyes already scanning the perimeter as he slid his ignition-cloth gloves on. He shot Hawkeye a sidelong glance, and realized that her brows were furrowed in concentration.

Without warning beyond what they already suspected, Mustang was suddenly being pulled downwards by a pair of hands he had grown quite accustomed to. She let out a cry along the lines of a gasp, her hand pressing down on his head to keep him as low as she could—while two bullets whizzed over their heads. She had already drawn her pistol then, back on her feet and watched with careful aim, shooting into the darkness. Mustang knew without having to lift his head that she missed—and intended to.

"Show yourself!"

Her order echoed around the room, the sound reverberating off of the old concrete walls as she remained at the ready. Mustang slowly stood as well, his back to her, his instinctive reaction to cover the most vulnerable portion of a soldier's body: their back. Like this, they waited, poised to take action should the need arise.

It never did, at that particular moment. Shortly after her order, there was a harsh clattering sound, and a gun was kicked out into the open, nestling itself near Hawkeye's right foot. Without a word, she placed the heel of her boot on it and glared into the darkness in the direction where the weapon appeared from.

"I…I…following…" the assailant, a particularly inexperienced young soldier from—they presumed—their very angry Westward neighbors, stammered as he stepped into the light, hands raised high in the air. "They…and I…and…"

She kept a steady hand aimed at the man, brows furrowed. "Saying that you were following orders does not excuse your behavior," she spat, the words dripping with vehemence.

"Why did you attempt to shoot us, soldier?" Mustang remained with his back to the stranger, unwilling to move and expose Hawkeye's back. He became increasingly aware that she was obviously concerned with the same thing, as she took a quarter-step backwards to press her form directly against his, closing any space between them.

This time, there was no answer. He could feel her shift her weight uncomfortably, almost picturing the dangerous look in her eyes as she waited for the man to move. His eyes began desperately scanning the darkness, looking for some fragment of information that might reveal the best course of action. Realistically, they both knew that there was a team of backup officers waiting just outside the building—and yet neither was ready to make such a drastic move.

Footsteps, and then another gunshot, and Mustang could _feel_ Hawkeye pulling him down again. This time the weight seemed different, though, and he chanced a look over his shoulder. Her left hand was tightly gripping his right sleeve, her fingers trembling. It took a moment for him to place what happened, but when the distinct scent of iron filled the air, he realized that she had taken a hit from one of the unidentified assailants in the room. She was certainly still coherent, however, because a moment later she was firing in the direction that the original shot had come from, and hollering something about how she couldn't handle a room full of people she couldn't see alone.

Two trained soldiers and the highest ranking officers in the Amestris military were not the best people to challenge, particularly after stranding them in an abandoned room. Though they couldn't clearly make out the situation, their remaining and unhindered senses peaked, and together they made quick work of their attackers. The gunfire instigated a response from the team of backup officers outside the building, and soon things were settled enough to consider trouble averted.

Sitting outside, Hawkeye held her arm as steady as she could force it as Mustang pressed his fingers against the edges of the wound. It took a bit of prodding, but she finally removed her jacket and allowed him to wrap up the wound, grumbling the whole while about how he needed to get looked over by a doctor as well.

"I'm fine," he replied quietly to each of her expressed concerns.

"But you were hit as well—"

"By someone's hand. Not quite as damage-inducing as a bullet. Just sit tight for another minute," he ordered. So Hawkeye remained still for a moment, and allowed him to finish—though just barely, as her patience was clearly running short.

"This was wholly unsuccessful," she finally murmured as they made their way back to the train station to head back into Central.

He sighed and nodded slowly, grumbling his agreement as they walked in relative silence. "I'm glad you're all right," he added slowly after a few moments. He truly was; when he heard that bullet whiz through the air and collide with her arm, felt her weight pulling him downwards, he was afraid. Afraid that things could have ended up far worse than they had.

"Don't move," she said quietly, tugging on his hand.

"What?" he asked, almost going to turn when he felt her hand on his cheek.

"One of those biting insects is on your neck," she declared softly, moving to flick it away. She did her best to keep from startling it, hoping she could swipe it off before it had a chance to really leave a mark. It wasn't like many of these bugs carried illnesses; she was far more concerned about the endless whining she would hear about the mosquito bite he had gotten.

She didn't get close enough, however. After a moment of quasi-stillness, Mustang slapped his hand against his neck, wincing. The defeated and yet satiated mosquito flew off in an off-kilter path, buzzing away.

"Are you okay?"

He sighed, scratching at the already raised bump of skin. "Damned bugs."

* * *

Upon their return to Central, everyone was concerned about the Führer and his wife, the bullet wound and the injured ankle and, most importantly, the lack of a resolution with their Westward neighbors. Approximately a week after their return, Führer Mustang arranged a meeting—on _his terms_ at Central headquarters—with the adversaries. He had no intention of allowing their hard-earned peace to dissipate.

Surprisingly, when they met in Central, things went well. Hawkeye stood silently behind the Führer's chair, her arm still in a sling, amber eyes narrow in a display of protective defense. Under her watchful eyes, nobody dared to step out of line.

They had been surprised. This woman, who attended the meeting to arrange resolution but didn't speak a word to anyone but the Führer, seemed to have the greatest impact on the events. Her reactions were subtle when conflicts began to arise, and every once and again she would make a quiet comment to the man. She stood stiffly behind that chair for nearly three hours, waiting and advising. And she never spoke to them. She made no recommendations to them about the treatment for the rebel soldiers who snuck into Amestris and fired at her or her boss. She had no suggestions to make to them about allowing a resolution. But her presence, they realized, had a profound impact.

They noticed it the most when she stepped out of the room to take care of a call that had been received just a few moments earlier. A taller man with light hair and blue eyes stepped in silently and approached her, leaning into her ear. She nodded slowly, bowed her head politely, and spoke the only words to them she had said the entire time: "Please excuse me."

With that, she left the room with the other soldier, and it was simply the Führer and them. The debate for peace continued, but the other man seemed slightly distracted and considered his answers far longer before he would respond. He returned to his swift negotiations when she returned to the room just twenty minutes later.


	4. Chapter 4

One night nearly a month later, very late in the evening, Mustang and his crew of faithful subordinates were sitting quietly in the office. They had been bogged down with work since the impending conflict and had yet to dig themselves out of the paperwork. As the night dragged on, both General Hawkeye and Major General Havoc noticed that their superior officer was shaking almost violently.

They had exchanged concerned glances.

"Hey Chief, you all right?"

Mustang looked up from his work, obsidian eyes slightly unfocused. There were deep circles beneath his eyelids, and he nodded slowly. "I'm fine."

Unconvinced, Hawkeye pushed herself away from her desk and crossed the room, standing beside him. In a gesture of closeness that was rarely displayed by either in public, she pressed a hand against his forehead, clicking her tongue in quiet disapproval.

"You have a fever, Roy," she said quietly. "It's late. You need to go home."

Mustang looked like he was tempted to protest, but kept his mouth shut when Hawkeye was standing beside him with his coat and putting away folders to clear his desk. Without a word, he allowed himself to be lead out of the door.

"Please try to finish what you can," she had said quietly, offering them a weary smile before closing the office door behind them.

* * *

It was almost five hours later when Major General Havoc's phone rang loudly throughout his apartment. Shaken from his stupor at the kitchen table, where he had been staring at a cup of coffee, he jumped to answer it. He picked up the receiver, "Jean Havoc."

"Jean?"

If he was surprised to be addressed by his first name, it had far less of an impact than the panic in the voice of the woman who was calling him. It was Riza Hawkeye, and she sounded as though she was nearly beside herself.

"Yeah. What's the matter? You sound upset." Havoc shifted his weight nervously in the chair. It was very unlike the General to sound so concerned, and even less unlike her to be telephoning at odd hours in the morning. It was still dark out.

"I was wondering if you might know a physician who might still be working at this hour—"

"Why?" His concern was only growing as he listened to her explain the situation. She told him that when she and Mustang had arrived home just a half an hour after leaving, Roy had gone to bed, agreeing that he did not feel quite well. Nervous about his health, she sat quietly beside him, fully aware that he was still shaking violently in his sleep.

"That wasn't what was so worrisome, though," she murmured tiredly into the telephone. Two hours after they had left the office, Roy woke. And he vomited, coughed and wretched until he was so weak that it was all he could muster to get back into bed. She had taken his temperature then, which was what specifically prompted her telephone call at such an indecent hour.

"I must not have heard you correctly," Havoc yawned, "forty-one point _seven _degrees, you said?"

"I just need the telephone number of a doctor who could come now. He isn't even steady enough on his feet to make it to the restroom, let alone to the car to drive to the hospital. I can't carry him, but something just isn't _right_." Jean listened as he heard the distinctive deep tenor voice of Roy in the background.

"Roy, you're all right—"

"Who the hell _are you_?" Mustang's words were harsh and certainly out of character, muddled by the poor reception of the telephone.

"Hawkeye? What's going on?" Jean swallowed, uncertain of what precisely was the best course of action.

"You have a fever, Roy, please just lie back down…"

Through the shaky sound of the receiver, the next thing Jean heard was one of the most disturbing things he ever had the misfortune of overhearing; Roy was sobbing hysterically, and Riza was making futile attempts to calm him down. After a moment of this, there was an audible _click_, and the line went dead.

* * *

Unable to even consider sleep, Havoc had hurried into his coat and then to the nearest hospital, as panicked as Hawkeye had sounded. At the hospital, he nearly pummeled the first doctor he found, explaining the current situation. Said doctor immediately agreed to accompany Havoc to the Mustang household.

The lights in the modest house were out, spare a soft glow emanating from a second-story window. The front door was locked, windows shut—so Havoc knocked as loudly as he could. At first there seemed to be no response; silence on behalf of the household. Then a light on the first floor turned on, the locks on the front door clicked open, and there was one Riza Hawkeye.

Apparently things had been hectic the entire evening; she was still in her uniform (boots and all, at that), the military blue jacket stained at the sleeves and chest. Havoc didn't want—or need—to ask; she had already told him that Mustang was vomiting. She already looked bone tired, her hair limp around her shoulders and amber eyes narrowed just slightly.

"I found a doct—"  
From upstairs there was a hollow thump, and Hawkeye jumped, stepping aside so Havoc and the doctor had room to enter. A moment later she was wordlessly beckoning them to follow as she bolted up the stairs. Instinctively, the blonde soldier made sure he stopped to lock the front door on the way up.

In the bedroom, she seemed to disappear behind the far side of the bed. The doctor was looking around curiously, eyeballing the stains on the bedcovers and the disheveled pillows. On a chair by the door, Havoc recognized Mustang's military jacket and a pair of standard boots. Apparently she had taken the time to get him undressed enough to go to bed. A moment later, Hawkeye reappeared with Mustang's arm over her shoulder.

"I told you to stay in bed," she murmured, trying to balance his weight and find a clean enough spot on the bed to lie him down. Havoc moved over to help, and together they got a delirious Mustang back into bed. Hawkeye stripped the topmost layer of sheets, wordlessly putting a clean blanket over her husband.

"Can't sit still," he grumbled, his hands plucking at the changed bed sheets, jiggling one foot beneath the clean blanket. Hawkeye pressed a hand against his forehead and winced, withdrawing her hand and removing her thoroughly soiled jacket.

The doctor was frowning quite visibly, and walked over to the bedside, wordlessly shooing the disgruntled Hawkeye aside so he had proper space. For a few moments, he examined Mustang, poking and prodding—which Mustang clearly did not appreciate—but did not come up with any readily accessible diagnosis.

"You're best bet will be to just keep him in bed for now. I can't say what's making him so ill, I've never seen anything like it before." This was said in quite a dejected tone, as though the doctor was disappointed in himself for not knowing the answer. "I will take some blood and do a lab culture. I don't feel that it's necessary for him to be in a hospital. In fact—because of who he is, it might be much better for him to be at home."

Hawkeye listened patiently, taking in what the doctor said word-for-word. After this brief explanation, the doctor and she dismissed themselves from the room for a brief private conversation. Havoc awkwardly stared at Mustang, who was staring absently into space.

"Hey chief?"

Mustang didn't move to respond.

"Chief?"

Still no response. Frustrated, Havoc chewed on the butt of his unlit cigarette (it had seemed so inappropriate to light it when his superior officer was clearly very sick). "Roy?"

Finally, the man moved. Distant obsidian eyes met blue, and Havoc swallowed, now unsure of what he was going to say. They stared at each other for a moment. "Don't die, Chief. I don't know how the General'd take it, but I'm pretty sure it wouldn't be good."


	5. Chapter 5

The next few days were a blur. Once and again, Havoc dropped by the house in the late evening bringing medicine that Hawkeye had forgotten to pick up in the haze of not sleeping at night and working full hours on both hers and Mustang's work. It was nearly a week later, after at least five of the attack-like symptoms of hours of tremors, a dangerously high fever followed by sweats when Hawkeye realized that people were starting to wonder. Without a doubt they would wonder where the Führer was when he did not make his weekly address over the radio.

It had been one of the first things Mustang had decided to do about gathering trust in the government once again. The first week he was in office, Mustang chose a Sunday evening to speak with the people via the radio. At first, not many seemed to listen and even fewer were interested; but shortly thereafter the concept gained popularity. Last Hawkeye had checked, most of the people living in Central made a point to listen to the address and rumor had it that many more listened outside of the city.

The entire office had debated about what would be done about their superior officer's address this week. It had been the first he would miss since his implementation as Führer, and nobody wanted to cause an uproar. The first suggestion was to skip the event all together—this was a quickly dismissed idea, as the concept seemed particularly unintelligent. People would certainly miss the weekly address they got—not to mention the thought of doing so seemed likely to cause uproar.

The second suggestion seemed far more reasonable: have Hawkeye give the address. Though everyone seemed to think it was a good idea, she did not. She vehemently protested, more than once explaining that her position was significantly more _behind the scenes_ and that she was not cut out for public speaking, particularly when it came to speaking to the entire country. But the remainder of the officers stood firm—and to her utmost dismay, when Havoc dropped by the house one evening while Mustang was particularly coherent, her husband agreed.

"They need to hear from someone. Someone that they trust. Of all the people I work with, you're the most visible. It has to be someone they know."

Havoc immediately chimed in. "C'mon General, it won't be that bad. Just a quick little speech, nobody'll even see you since its on the radio."

"Roy, you can formulate a proper sentence. You could record the address tonight and—"

"No," Mustang interjected, voice firm. "It has to be up to date. That's an order, Hawkeye…just do the damned address."

* * *

And so that was how it came to be that she was standing behind the microphone in the studio where the radio stations of the country were broadcasted from, holding a sheet of paper and glaring at Fuery, Breda and Falman through the thick glass of the recording booth. It was late Sunday afternoon, and she had rehearsed this speech approximately seven times throughout the day. Every few moments or so, she glanced up at the clock. Roy hadn't been well when she left, and so Havoc took her place for the few hours of her absence. It was the start of one of the spells of sickness that he had, the fever and tremors. She hoped that she would get home before things got worse.

The man outside of the booth was grinning at her, a stupid lopsided grin of what she presumed to be encouragement, and gave her a thumbs up. She frowned at him. The man considered her reaction, and then pointed to the clock, holding up five fingers. She realized he was counting down the moments—four, three, two, one—and then pointed at the red light. Go.

"Good evening, Amestris. This is General Riza Hawkeye. I'm certain you were expecting Führer Mustang, but he has taken ill. There is no need for concern on his behalf; the doctor says he will soon be fine."

The speech went on like that. Every once and again, the clearly uncertain-of-herself Hawkeye would remind her audience that she was only speaking what Mustang had relayed to her, that she offered no embellishments to the wording. And then, she concluded—approximately ten minutes earlier than Mustang would have—and bid the audience goodnight.

The red light shut off and the director was waving her out, almost frantically. A spark of fear crossed her mind, and she immediately exited the booth.

"Major General Havoc called—"

Fuery hardly spat out the words before Hawkeye snapped to attention. Havoc was with Mustang. Havoc was taking care of Mustang at the moment. If Havoc called at the station, something was not right.

"What did he say?"

Fuery stammered out his reply. "H-he said that Führer Mustang wasn't doing well and kept asking for the lady with blonde hair. Over and over—I could hear him in the background. Kept saying that Havoc wasn't who he was used to."

Hawkeye winced, features darkening. "Take care of what is needed here," she murmured, handing Fuery the folder that contained the address and a few other files. "Please." With that said, she grabbed her bag hardly stopping to dig out her house keys, before hurrying to the door.

* * *

"I _said_ you aren't _her_. Where is she?! What did you do to her?!" The upstairs window was open just a crack. Through the shadows, something flew across the room. "You son of a bitch! Where is she?!"

The screaming was almost audible from outside. Short of breath, she fumbled with the keys to the door and let herself in, shedding her coat at the floor and stepping out of her boots one at a time as she sprinted up the steps. The bedroom light was on. Havoc was standing anxiously in the doorway.

"Chief she's coming back, I swear—she should be here any minute now. Calm down."

Still out of breath from the sprint to the house, she gingerly pushed Havoc out of the way, her touch surprisingly gentle as she did so. Mustang was sitting upright in bed, fussing with the pillows and grimacing. His dark eyes landed on her, and the grimace faded from his features, replaced with relief.

"You're okay."

She nodded. "Of course I'm okay," Hawkeye took a seat on the bed, having no visual response to the fact that Mustang was now gripping her hand so tightly that her fingertips were turning red. "You need to lie down, Roy."

Riza gently disentangled her hand, and left the room for a moment. In her absence, Roy again grew tense and agitated. She returned with a washcloth, frowning, brows furrowed. Taking the seat beside him on the bed again, she gingerly pressed his shoulders down, murmuring soothing words as she swiped the cool washcloth over his forehead. "You need sleep."

Jean swallowed, feeling obtrusive. He didn't belong here, not now. Without a word, he turned and headed down the steps. In the back of his mind, it was unfathomable. That every night, Riza would return to this house to see Roy as sick as _this_, feverish and paranoid and having points in time when he didn't recognize his own wife.

He picked up her jacket and hung it on the rack, uncertain as to whether it was reasonable to leave. After seeing just how bad Roy could become, it seemed a sin to even consider leaving her to her own devices.

Upstairs, he heard moaning.

Jean quietly moved to the steps, taking her boots and placing them beside the coat rack as well, frowning. He desperately tried to shut out the sound of the pained cries. Something fell upstairs, and he swallowed. Her keys were dropped on the floor; he carefully hung them on the hook.

Little things were out of place. Roy's coat was hanging on the coat rack as well, but the shoulders were collecting dust. He took the coat off and shook it, coughing as the particles collected in his face. The chairs in the sitting room and the small coffee table were covered in files she had taken home to work on after her twelve-hour workday. It looked disturbingly messy. Without a word or second thought, he started sorting through them, organizing them as signed and unsigned, placing them in alphabetical order. The woman fell asleep on files at work; she spent so little time resting at this point. The least he could do was put some damned files in alphabetical order.

Jean didn't realize how long he had been sitting there until he felt weight on the seat beside him.

"He's asleep," she mumbled, head in her hands.

Jean sighed. "Good."

"Thank you for calling."

She had never sound so forsakenly tired, not in all of the years he had known her. Not during final exams at the Military Academy, not after almost a week of twenty-four hour sniper training, not even during the massacre at Ishbal.

It was silent for a few moments. Riza reached for the files, and Jean pushed her hand away in mild disgust. He stood and placed them across the room, far from arm's length. Then he took his seat beside her again, blue eyes only casting a quick glance in her direction.

"You know you're doing everything you can for him."

She swallowed, closing her eyes. For the first time in years, her voice wavered. "I know. But it won't be enough."


	6. Chapter 6

Jean had gone home after another hour of silence. For half an hour or so, she sat downstairs in silence, staring blankly at the white wall across the room. She had started up the stairs when she heard a crash, and moved faster when she heard no other noise.

She found Roy on the floor. Falling to her knees, she gently tried to get his arm over her shoulder, finding that it was easier to support his weight now that he had lost so much of it. With little effort exerted, she had him in back in bed.

"Roy?"

He didn't answer her.

She crawled into the bed next to him.

"Roy?"

He still didn't answer.

Carefully, she tugged the blankets over him and rested her fingertips on his wrist, her ear hovering about his mouth. He was breathing, but it was shallow. He had a pulse, but it was weak. His skin felt like fire to the touch and the color had long since drained from his features.

"Roy, answer me." Still, he was silent. Her hands were trembling when she shook him, and his eyes snapped open, dazed. He didn't speak. He stared. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot and a jaundiced yellow, his gaze distant and unrecognizing.

"Say something."

He only stared. He didn't know who she was, she could tell by the look of confusion in his eyes. She could tell because when he was this ill and didn't recognize her, he wouldn't touch her and was unreceptive to anything she said to him.

"_Please_," she begged, smoothing a stray hair from his face. He blinked once, than twice, the look he was giving her changing just slightly in the process. For a few moments, he continued to stare, confused. Uncertain.

Finally, "Riza."

Relieved, she let out a soft sigh, letting her eyes droop closed as she leaned his head against her chest. His voice sounded hoarse and dry.

"Don't leave me," he whispered, his fingers resting against her leg. She gently cradled him in her arms, frowning still as she held him.

She shook her head slowly, fingers gently running through his hair soothingly. "I'm not going anywhere."

Satisfied, he closed his eyes, shifting to rest against her, relaxing to the gentle rocking she provided—back and forth, back and forth, slow and steady like she always was. She could feel cool wetness against her shirt, and realized that he was crying. Crying again, like so many late nights when he couldn't remember who she was or why he was here or why he felt so sick.

"Don't cry," she whispered, her voice soothing. "You're going to be okay, Roy…" Gingerly, she pressed a kiss against the top of his head, still rocking him slowly as it seemed to calm him. "I promise."

* * *

Jean Havoc was tired of late-night telephone calls. If whoever wanted him so damned _badly_ could just wait a few hours and call in the morning. If they would leave him alone just for a few hours, please, so he could get some sleep, for pity's sake. "Jean Havoc," he mumbled. He had been _asleep_, for crying out loud. Asleep for the first time in thirty-two hours.

"Jean, I…"

He sat up slowly, rubbing at his eyes in the dark. It was Riza. Again. He had come to realize that she really was the only person who would telephone so late at night and only when there really was an emergency. And considering the state that Roy had been earlier, there was an emergency. "What's wrong?"

He couldn't make out the words she said, only the tears.

Tears. She was crying.

"Riza, what's wrong?"

She still didn't answer him. She sobbed.

"Riza! Tell me what the hell is wrong!"

It was quiet for a moment beside her tears, and finally, "Jean…he's dead."


	7. Chapter 7

Mass pandemonium didn't define the state of the country at the moment. Nobody had killed their leader, nobody had taken a gun and pressed it against his head, nobody had skewered him or deliberately made a point to remove him from his position. Some _illness_ had taken him. Illness. It was just common illness—illness that would cause newborn children to die only hours after birth because of a fever or the elderly to fall to sleep and never wake again.

Major General Havoc was the one who called everyone in. In a state of shock, they listened. While this happened, General Hawkeye took to the radio station. It was with utmost sorrow that she reported the death of Führer Roy Mustang. The doctor believed that he fell ill with a disease that was fairly common outside of Amestris but extremely rare in the country. She made a point not to implicate anyone.

The whole lot of her officers had stood outside the recording booth, listening to the slow and methodical precision with which she spoke. Her voice was deceptively level as she explained the current situation. As soon as possible, there would be a search for a replacement that was both suitable to the previous Führer and to the public. For the time being, however, she would stand in his place.

She had arrived at the radio station in her dress uniform, hair pinned up and looking surprisingly put together for a woman who lost her husband not even two hours earlier and was about to take his place as the country's leader. Hawkeye didn't speak a word to them as they went back to headquarters. She didn't speak a word as to the reporters who watched as she signed the instatement documents that were kept under heavy lock and key, previously signed by Führer Mustang and left behind in case of an emergency.

The law had always been that, should anything happen to the Führer himself, he had made a decision when put into office as to who would take his place. Generally, this was an immediate subordinate, more often than not the General who worked directly beneath him. The rules of instatement said that, should the Führer need to leave office for any reason, the undersigned General would take his position until elections were held and a replacement was found and met the approval of the Führer's cabinet, the people who worked with him day in and day out. The documents to instate the emergency second-in-command as Führer were signed as one of the Führer's first actions in office.

Mustang was no different. He had never consulted Hawkeye on the matter, knowing and assuming that she would understand it was her duty to take his place. In his strong hand, the document clearly read that General Hawkeye was to take his place should any harm befall him.

It was as simple as that, if the whole event could be called _simple_ at all. Hawkeye signed the documents, and went up a single rank: from General Hawkeye to Führer Hawkeye. And the day dragged on as they worked. Most of the office carried the paperwork, while Hawkeye blearily prepared the funeral arrangements. It would be as soon as possible; the extended timeframe was more than she could bear.

* * *

In full regalia, Führer Roy Mustang was buried with honors, in a respectable grave and with a substantial mass of people attending the service. Front and center was Führer Hawkeye, presentable and stone-faced, surrounded by her officers. General Havoc—whom she had chosen as her second-in-command amidst the chaos—stood to her immediate right. His hand was on her shoulder, fingers just slightly squeezing it as she watched the casket be lowered into the ground.

There were women in the background, crying. She wanted to turn and empty a bloody magazine in them. Her position was so suddenly masculine that she couldn't allow herself to mourn the loss of her husband, not if she wanted to uphold his honor and the honor of his position. Not if she wanted to honor his memory.

When the service was completed, quite a few people came to offer their condolences to the impassive Führer Hawkeye. She thanked them genuinely, but never had much to say in response. People would spend weeks mentioning how tight the woman's voice had sounded when she thanked them for their time, as though she had spent the entire service attempting not to cry.

"Riza."

The graveyard had cleared ages ago. Startled out of her trance, Riza turned, meeting Jean's eyes. He was frowning, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, dark circles heavily etched into his skin. "You've been here alone for over an hour."

Disconcerted, she glanced at her watch to see that he was right. She had been standing here alone for almost an hour and forty minutes. But she had no inclination to leave. Not yet. Jean gently nudged her shoulder. "You can't stand here forever."

Swallowing, she nodded. "I know."

* * *

When everyone in the office went home that evening, she lingered behind. The more time she spent behind the oversized desk catching up on the work Roy had missed during his illness and the work she couldn't get through herself, the more appealing her pistol appeared. To keep herself from doing something foolish, she had locked the weapon in the lowest drawer of his desk—_her_ desk—and tried to focus on the sheets of paper.

She couldn't force herself to pretend that she was working, and sorted the pages away from her scope of vision. Slowly she sifted through the desk, coming across quite a few odds and ends. In one drawer she found a single ignition cloth glove, seven pens, and a file Roy had said he misplaced almost two months ago. In another she found a box of envelopes and a single letter addressed to her.

Puzzled, she lifted the small envelope out of the drawer and opened it, skimming through the words carefully.

_Riza,_

_By the mere fact that you are reading this letter, then something has befallen me. I can't say what since I'm certainly not there at the moment, but by virtue of the letter and where it has been left, you have taken my position._

_I know it seems unlike me to have such foresight, to leave you a letter should I suddenly leave office. A very long time ago, Lieutenant Colonel—Brigadier General, I still forget sometimes—Hughes told me that there are some things that can have a greater impact than spoken words. He was specifically referring to a letter. I think at the time he wanted me to write you (we were in Ishbal at the time), but I never did forget what he said._

_I know you're likely convincing yourself that you aren't fit for such a public job. You've said several times that you prefer working behind the scenes, out of the public's eye—making their lives better and never taking the credit for it._

_I have faith in your abilities. I chose you specifically as my successor in this position because I know you are capable of it. You have the will and the drive to do this; you simply don't realize it yet. You need to believe that you can, though, before you achieve anything._

_Have faith in yourself. I know you will carry everything out as we discussed, for which I hold you in the highest regard._

_I'm sorry you've been left to deal with this position on your own. I'm sorry I'm not there to help you however I can. I'm sorry I won't spend the rest of my life with you, growing old with you and watching as our country develops into what it should have been from the start. I'm sorry I'll never see our children, that I'll never see what all of our hard work has earned us. Most importantly, I'm sorry to have left you. _

_No matter what has happened, rest assured that I would still trust you with my life._

_I love you (I never tire of saying that)._

_Love,_

_Roy Mustang_

_Lux Aeterna Luceat Eis – Let Eternal Light Shine Upon Them_


	8. Bonus Chapter 1

Author's Notes: Hm...I wrote this little snippet. It was originally right before the bit where the wedding ceremony is briefly covered. I ended up choosing not to include it in the original story, but I still really liked this little scene. So there's a bonus now, haha. Enjoy.

I appreciate all of the reviews I got. It makes me happy. I've made one edit to chapter 7, and that's really it. Please continue to review, though--it makes me so happy. Totally makes my day!

* * *

The reign of Führer Bradley had been incomprehensible. For years, the people of the country Amestris didn't know where loyalties existed. They were given little reason to trust the military, little reason to have faith in a government that seemed to have forgotten that they existed. Führer Mustang, however, was different. He persistently went out to interact with people in Central City (though never alone, they had noticed). At least once a week, he could be found spending his afternoon meandering the streets and stopping to talk to whomever wanted his attention.

It was on one such Friday afternoon when a child no more than four years old was suddenly tugging on his pants leg, trying desperately to get his attention.

"Mister Führer Mustang person sir!" Her voice was quiet and hesitant, but eager as well. The fingers of one hand were still wrapped tightly in the blue fabric of the military pants, knuckles white. Mustang paused, turned, and responded with a look of confusion. The child was beaming with pleasure, holding a perfectly mutilated dandelion in her other hand, and holding it proudly up to the Führer himself—who was staring with a look of dazed disbelief.

"And…Miss General Hawkeye ma'am," the child chimed, waving the dandelion with such force that the stem bent for what looked like the thousandth time. The dilapidated weed crumpled on its side, but the child paid no mind. "Mommy says that you twos are going to be married happy, like my mommy and daddy. And I found this pretty flower, and then I saws you walking, and the pretty flower was the same color as your hair, and since mommy says that people get flowers at weddings, then I thought I'd give you the very first flower you'll get!"

Clearly proud of herself, she stuffed the flower into the hanging hand of Mustang, and then released the hem of his pants, clapping her small hands together. "Do you like it?"

Hawkeye, who had listened to the child's enthusiastic speech with little response, was smiling as well, and pressed a hand against the girl's head, fingering the soft orange-tinted hair. "That's very thoughtful, thank you. It is a very nice flower, don't you think, sir?"

Mustang, who was now idly turning the dandelion in his fingers, nodded. "Yes, it is a beautiful little flower, just like her."

The child giggled, flushing a shade of crimson that could only flatter a four-year-old, and then jumped at the sound of a voice calling from the opposite side of the market. "Oh! Mommy says that I should just gives you the flower and leave 'cause you have works to do, so…Happy Wedding!"

And with that, the girl disappeared into the crowd from wherever she had come, leaving the two officers standing her wake, thoroughly confused. It had hardly been a week since the announcement of their engagement, and people had made remarks here and there as they wandered the streets, but such an open response from such an innocent child drilled the thought home.

Hawkeye stretched, glancing at her watch. "It's getting late, sir. We should probably return to the office for the night."

Mustang, it seemed, had other thoughts on his mind, as he stared at her for a moment, before tucking the little flower behind her ear. "She was right. It is the same color as your hair."


End file.
